Why?

Why do I decide to write these things I CALL stories? These things I have are nothing.
My mind isn't in the right state of mind right now. Those voices speak again... the ones inside my head... they say things. Things I would rather not repeat for the sake that I will lose it again. They speak in voices of friends and enemies from the past, they speak in the voices of those I care most about. My mind can't separate certain things I am shown. I can't tell what I am doing anymore. Stress or depression... either one I am fine with but both are nearly killing me.

*sigh*

I used an analogy earlier (or was it a smilie/metaphor). "Life is like a fire. One that you tend and feed. Let it go out invites the dark, To over feed makes it unstable and kill itself." I spoke this out loud and as I said it I felt colder. As I try to reason with myself I hear the voices shout. My only question is to those who see this.... Who am I?
What am I? This sense I have is tearing me apart inside and I cannot control what is shredded. I already had one mental breakdown yesterday, one which was a more hysterical breakdown that nearly made me lose myself to the insanity I keep in check. I fear for myself at times but now so more than ever. Things I found some form of happiness in just don't do anything.... I feel especially empty inside actually when I do them. Drawing? used to have many ideas go through my head but now I am lucky to get a single thing. Writing? I haven't even been able to TOUCH the stories for fear of tainting them. Reading? I read but don't feel anything. I try to humor myself while reading but I always end up worse than before. IS there really anything to live for or am I damned to be in this self-destroying spiral?

I know that this will eventually end but I just can't help think that this is going to be happening all too soon once again. Doesn't help that the only thing that actually checks up on me is a cat. The only one who truly cares about me.

No one cares for the crazy person.... no one.